Category Archives: Poetry

Hast Thou Forsaken Us? (1921)

Miss V. C. Thomas; Poems for Your Scrap Book, Chicago Defender, May 9, 1921

Twelve million strong we stand in grim array,
Twelve million strong denied the light of day;
Twelve million hearts in Thee, God, do they trust,
Twelve million dry: Has Thou forsaken us?

Like herded beasts they brought us to these shores,
Like beasts were we disposed of to our foes,
Like beasts they scourged our bodies to the dust,
O God, hast Thou, hast Thou forsaken us?

We’ve plowed these fields and made these forests clear,
We’ve drained these swamps and made waste places bear,
Our fate through all these years has seemed unjust,
With tears, we ask, hast Thou forsaken us?

In battle, too, we’ve labored side by side;
When needed, for this country we have died,
For America alone, and not for lust,
We’ve fought; and now, proud land, has thou forsaken us?

We’ve given of our best to this fair land:
In men, in blood, in labor of the hand.
Our bank accounts, though scant and very few,
Yet even in this have we forsaken you?

Must we forever be denied man’s right,
Because our skins, by nature, are not light?
If color for true manhood is the test,
Why were we called to battle with the rest?

We do not ask removal from our sphere,
Our race, our kin are to our hearts most dear;
Within this land, together and as friend,
We only seek the chance, the rights of men.

We long no more to hear the din of mobs:
We long no more to hear the victim’s sobs;
When justice, love, our laws begin to sway,
Then for us will have dawned that brighter day.

In right triumphant, we would not lose faith.
We would believe in all our Savior saith,
Yet through these years of pain and hate unjust,
Twelve million cry, hast Thou forsaken us?

The Optimist (1920)

Ethyl Lewis; Crisis, September 1920

Oppressed? Ah, well, the devil, you say!
Well–weeping can only last for a day;
The blackest cloud is all bright inside–
What’s in with the flood goes our with the tide.

Scorned and laughed at! That matters not–
He who laughs last has the best of the lot;
The first shall be last and the last shall be first–
He who gives drink, tomorrow may thirst.

You’re suffering now, dark clouds enshroud–
But yours is the suffering of which one is proud;
For out of the hell and the hard of it all,
Salvation will come, as the light came to Saul.

The war has been killing your men, you say;
Despair has been eating your heart away–
It would be all right if you didn’t know
That the country you love despised you so.

Never mind, children be patient awhile,
And carry your load with a nod and a smile;
For out of the hell and the hard of it all,
Time is sure to bring sweetest honey–not gall.

Our of the hell and hard of it all,
A bright star shall rise that never shall fall;
A God-fearing race–proud, noble and true,
Giving good for the evil which they always knew,

Before whom all nations shall come and bow down
And place at its feet the world’s scepter and crown.
The scorners will then know “What fools mortals be!”
And the laughers can no more find heart for their glee.

So dry your wet pillow and lift your bowed head,
And show to the world that hope is not dead!
Be patient! Wait! See what yet may befall,
Out of the hell and hard of it all.

E Pluribus Unum (1917)

Edna Perry Booth, Brooklyn, N.Y.; California Eagle, August 18, 1917

I wonder if Abe Lincoln can look down from where he is
And see the things that happen in this land that once was his?
I wonder if his heart aches; if the tears bedim his eyes;
If Heaven is not quite perfect for him beyond the skies?
He must recall the message he gave us, long ago,
When he said, “God made men equal,” then helped to prove them so.
But are they equal? Are they free? And what is freedom, pray,
When some men’s souls are scarce their own in this fair land today?

So I wonder if Abe Lincoln wouldn’t like to just step down
To earth and count as nothing the loss of golden crown,
Just to show an erring people what he meant when once he said,
“Equality for each one,” be he black or white or red.
Yes, his heart must ache, and grieving must fill his soul to see
How they’ve abused his message since the days of ’63.
But patience, men–truth, crushed to earth, will surely rise again,
And never anything worth while was won, except through pain.

There’s Someone who is watching; there’s Someone taking toll;
And every unjust deed will reap, some day, a white man’s soul.
Abe Lincoln will yet see his words respected and fulfilled–
Will find the cruel slander against the dark race stilled.
Then, perhaps, we’ll boast a country that is brave and truly fee,
That upholds its own dear honor and its vaunted liberty;
Then our E Pluribus Unum will be more than empty phrase,
And our treatment of the dark race won’t besmirch the flag we raise.

[This poem appears in three categories: “God and Christ,” “Hope and the Future,” and “Injustices”

Poem (1899)

A. A. Lott; Richmond Planet, August 26, 1899

Alexandria, Va.–On the recent lynching in this city, Aug. 8th.

________________________

What means this howling, hideous shout,
  "Take him out! Take him out!"
What can be all this noise about,
  "Take him out! Take him out!"
The midnight shriek reaches the sky,
All over town both far and nigh,
The sound shocks every passer-by,
  "Take him out! Take him out!"

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Hell’s for Rent (1930)

J. Riley Dungee, for the A.N.P; Pittsburgh Courier, October 11, 1930

Hark, Fellow Citizens of hell,
  Hear ye in my doleful story--
How Mississippi's filched my fame
  And gone off with my glory.
In unexcelled malignity
  I heretofore held away,
'Til Mississippi raped my role
  And took my rank away.
In diabolic cruelty,
  I mastered all the while,
But Mississippi savagery
  Has got me skint a mile.
Beside a Mississippi snob
  I look like Abraham,
Beside a Mississippi Mob
  This camp don't count a damn.
The patronage of former time
  No longer I command.
For friends have found a fouler clime
  In Mississippi Land.
Now I am Mississippi bound,
  My prestige to reclaim,
To set up my dominion there
  And resurrect my fame.
It's too infernal holy here,
  It ain't like home no more;
So hell's for rent, and I am bent
  For Mississippi's shore.
This fiend-forsaked synagogue
  Will drive a demon dippy,
I've got to quit this pious pit,
  I'm bound for Mississippi.

Sun-Kissed America (1924)

Nahum Daniel Brascher; Philadelphia Tribune, September 8, 1924

I am the symbol of Sun-Kissed America.
The blood of royalty runs through my veins.
From Africa’s soil; beyond the deep, blue sea,
Years long gone by,
Came they who gave to me beauty of Color.
Princes came out of Egypt; and from
The coast of Gold, though chained and scourged,
And made to toil by day and night,
Without reward, or hope.
But faith they kept, and love within their soul.
These gifts straight from God,
No man could steal,
Or cause to cringe beneath the lash.
Hope saw a star, the North,
Faith led the way;
Love unlocked the doors, and broke the chains.
The clash of steel, the lives of men
With countless names; blood of my
Blood, bone of my bone; in all the
Wars on this fair soil,
Helped to pay the price to make me free,
To see the Sun to know the God
To serve the cause and love
My fellowman.
That which was bought, at such a price,
In such a way, in blood and time.
Down all the streams of Time,
I hold most deal[?];
I will not [?] the trust,
Nor mar the honor of the sacred dead
I am the living symbol of Sun-Kissed America.
I will not cringe, nor bite the dust of fear,
I have a goodly heritage.
I will be a man–I AM AN AMERICAN.

The Champions of Our Race (1911)

James Conway Jackson; Washington Bee, April 15, 1911

Oh, they tell of grim, old giants who fought in the days of old;
Of the knights who wore the gauntlets, of the many warriors bold;
And they rave about the brave men who looked danger in the face,
But we seldom hear a good word for the champions of our race.

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